On a Sandwich

     The end of the semester is coming up, things are getting hectic, there are papers to write, and things to be done. I've been going here and there, running all over to get things done and to see people I haven't seen for a long time. To top it all off, I'm getting ready to seriously embark on a writing project, not something for school, something for me. But with all this going on, the only thing I'm really inclined to write about, strangely enough, is a sandwich I had last night.

     A friend of mine swung by last night after work and brought me a sandwich, an event which I knew was going to happen. It was a BL sandwich, more commonly known as a BLT. You see, I've got this love hate relationship with tomatoes. First of all, they lied to me. As you know, they're a fruit, but they spent my entire childhood masquerading as a vegetable, and there's an old expression saying that you're judged by the company you keep. Well, based on the company that tomatoes keep, they're totally vegetables. Other than trust issues, I hate the tomato as a whole, but love the things it turns into. I can't get enough marinara sauce, or spaghetti sauce, or pizza sauce, or ketchup, or so on, but the tomato on it's own is a vile imposter.

     The sandwich had all sorts of virtues, not the least of which was excellent timing. (Virtues for people and sandwiches are completely different in case you didn't know.) I had had almost nothing to eat all day, so when that sandwich was delivered I was starving. The sandwich was also crafted with impeccable breadsmanship. The toaster of these particular slices must have magic hands, because they were just toasted enough to not soak up the mayo, but was soft enough to not insult the roof of my mouth. Speaking of the mayo, it must have been dished out by the very same hands that crafted the clouds, because the gentle way in which that tangy spread stretched across the corners of it's floury universe was a part of some greater plan. And then of course there's the matter of the lettuce to bacon ratio. These two essential sandwich pieces came together like the sea and the shore, the very border between these two radically different things was just an estimate, an ever fluctuating boundary between the crispness of the bacon, and the wholesomeness of the lettuce.

     I could go on and on about this sandwich, speak of the angle of it's cut, the curve of it's crust, the aroma of it's parts, or the heat of it's passion. But to capture a sandwich like this in words does it a bit of a disservice, since the eye and the tongue, while often working in unison, don't always enjoy the same things. A treat for one might be an inconvenience for the other. So feel free to stop reading now and indulge the fancies of both the eye and the tongue in whatever way you feel fit.